Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"So I hope," Sam said, set the tent-flap aside with his scab-barded sword, and ducked out into sleet become snow.

An Entry – which, I suppose, must be only a footnote to my history of North Map-Mexico and its Captain-General. In his person, the young man represents his land and people so well that that alone may be his guarantee of command. Young, strong – certainly ferocious, but never, I think, wantonly, carelessly. A fierce shepherd of the mountain shepherds' country.

He sat on the edge of my cot, and the light of my lamp went to him so he seemed outlined, vibrating with energy to be released as, supposedly, did the internal engines of wheel-cars on Warm-times' hard black roads.

A sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, sandy hair cropped short and shaved at his neck – looking very much like a countryman come to a fair to wrestle for prizes. A prosperous young countryman though marked by harsh weather, dressed in good cloth, soft leathers, fine boots. His forearms thick as posts, his large hands as fat with muscle as most men's fists.

He sat, elbows on his knees, and spoke to me – welcomed me, really, into his close company. A closeness likely to cause me difficulties with Eric Lauder…

What marked him commander? The light that seemed to go to him was surely only my attention. So, his calm… yes. A readiness to act – certainly that; when he wears his long sword, its grip hovers over his right shoulder like an odd impatient demon, close enough to whisper in his ear.

It seems to me, considering, that the marker of his command lies in the great division, a canyon's space, between the young man as plainly seen – intelligent, forthright, absolutely capable – and the infinitely subtle expression in his eyes. Eyes the color of those semiprecious stones comprised of mixtures of light brown, light green, and light yellow, seen sometimes in streams run down from the mountains of Map-California.

In his eyes was nothing forthright or simple, but rather complication, inquiry, examination… and an odd affection – perhaps for me, perhaps for everyone.

When he left, I sat as one sits after reading an important copybook, of which only a portion has been understood.

"Get that damn rat off the meat!"

Elvin, quick for a dying old man, picked up a roll and threw it down the table. It missed Butler's dog – a yapping single-handful – and hit Sam as he was carving. The mutton seemed tenderer than usual, and had little bits of pepper stuck in it here and there. Oswald-cook grown enamored of southern spices, after cooking a thousand dull kettles of Brunswick slumgul.

"Don't hurt my Poppy!" Phillip Butler wore ground-glass imperial spectacles held to his eyes on thin, twisted wires that curled behind his ears. He looked over the spectacles more often than through them. Short, gray-bearded, he seemed more a children's tutor than a colonel of Heavy Infantry.

Poppy scurried down the table with a mutton scrap in tiny jaws, jumped a platter, and leaped down into Butler's lap. "There, Candy-lamb," the colonel said, looking still wearied by the five-day ride from Hermosillo Camp to Better-Weather.

"What's this about Howell going up into Texas," he'd said to Sam that afternoon, "and what nonsense are you up to, sir?"

"Serious nonsense, Phil."

Sam stooped, found the roll on the floor, then threw it back, sidearm. The brothers leaned apart so the roll flew between them, and Sam went back to carving mutton – cutting Ned's portion into small pieces, for one-handed eating. Oswald-cook had put many little peppers in the meat… Sam handed the loaded pewter plates to Margaret to pass down the long, narrow table. They were eating in a room of stone walls; ground floor in the fort, therefore no windows.

Around the table were all those close to him – except Portia-doctor, still with the wounded at Clinic, and Charmian, already gone west to annoy the Khan's people come over the border.

Margaret sat to his left, looking somewhat harried, preoccupied. Below her, Howell, looming eye-patched over his plate. Then Phil Butler, then Ned, eating one-handed and looking grim. The Rascob brothers at the end of the table, backs to the iron stove – called a Franklin, after some Warm-time person. And up the other side, Eric, who seemed annoyed, then Charles, then the little librarian, shy and silent, on Sam's right.

His friends, and only family… though there'd been others through the years. From the Sierra, and later. Paul Ortiz… Lucy… John Ott. All dead. Paul killed at Tonichi. Lucy caught by imperials, raped, then burned to death tied to the Jesus tree in the temple at Malpais. And John Ott lost for nothing, wasted for what had seemed a useful notion.

"I'm glad I'm dying," Elvin said through his bandanna, as if he'd mind-read Sam's thoughts. "Better death, than these fucking dinners with those dogs!"

Jaime elbowed him. "Be quiet."

"Don't tell me to be quiet." Elvin, his plate arrived, settled to mutton and potatoes, tucking forkfuls under a flap of bandanna to prove his good appetite.

The plates went round. Sam sliced and served, Margaret passed… and with thanks to Lady Weather or Mountain Jesus by those who cared to give it, they ate spiced mutton, broken potatoes with mutton gravy, and broccoli steamed with garlic. They ate this main course quickly and in silence, from campaign habit… then took second helpings for the same reason.

Margaret got up from the table-bench twice to go round, pour barley beer for them. She bent beside Elvin to whisper in his ear. "You don't have to eat what you don't want, Old Sweetheart."

"Mind your own business," Elvin said, then put down his knife and two-tine fork – like all their mess silver, a spoil from God-Help-Us. "I've had enough. Those little rats of Phil's have spoiled my appetite, running around the damn table."

"You can have some custard, El," Jaime said.

"You have some fucking custard."

… When – after the last of mutton, almost the last of potatoes and broccoli – the custard bowl was passed with a cruet of honey, conversation came round with it.

"Anything at the races, Howell?" Charles and Howell both placed long-running wagers on the races at El Sauz – though betting only with civilians.

" I won on Barbershears, Charles. I'm sorry, pigeon said Snowflake didn't show."

"Surprise me," Charles said. "Amaze me. A horse with three first finishes – and for me, no show."

Ned was eating a dish of chicken-egg custard with his left wrist's bandaged stump held carefully away from the table's edge. "Lesson, Charles – don't bet on white horses. Does anybody here know of any white horse winning consistently? There's something wrong with their bones… more white a horse has on his hide, the more easily broken down."

"Silver," the little librarian said, the first thing he'd said at dinner.

"What?"

"The Warm-time horse," Neckless Peter said. "Hi-yo Silver was extraordinary."

"Oh… Well, Warm-times." Ned poured honey on his dish. "Different breeding."

Sam listened to horse talk for a while, then set his beer-jack down, pushed his custard dish aside. "I'm sorry," he said, "to break the rule of no war conversation at mess."

There were several small sounds of metal on oak, as knives and forks were put down. The duller taps of horn spoons… Margaret stood and went to the dining-room door, by the weapons rack.

"Empty corridor," she said, "except for two of Charles' silent people on guard. One dog. Louis."

"Louis?"

"The dog, Sam. Name's Louis."

"Okay… What's said here, is not repeated." Sam waited for nods. "You all know that Howell's going north into Map-Texas."